Fled is that music
All your sleeves
unravell’d.
You are losing hold
of your leaves; they
flake from you, wind-scaled
and thankful.
After so much
control, such falling
apart: memory’s short term
then school’s
out —
the birds disperse and wheel
over alien corn.
A constant effort drains
your sense. Just sometimes
you’ll
overhear a loner singing
on viewless wings, his
small
melodious plot staked out
from a bare branch in
the ashfield.
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